Claimed by the Prince of Darkness

It was Saturday noon, and Ruelle sat at the worn wooden table, a warm bowl of stew in front of her. The smell of herbs and broth filled the small kitchen, mingling with the sound of Hailey’s mother, Mrs. Sylvie Elliot, bustling around, setting more bread on the table. The kitchen was modest, the chairs worn, but there was a kind of quiet comfort in its simplicity.

Across from her, Mr. Elliot leaned back in his chair, his large frame making the chair creak under his weight. His boots were still dirt-streaked from the fields, and his hands, rough with calluses, rested on the table. His voice, when it came, was a low rumble that filled the room like distant thunder.

"Pass the bread, love," he said to Mrs. Elliot before turning to Ruelle, his sharp gaze softening as it settled on her. "You girls need to eat more," he said, his gruff voice carrying a note of warmth. "You’ve got those tests comin’ up at that academy of yours, don’t you?"

Mr. Elliot tore off another piece of bread and leaned forward, placing it on Ruelle’s plate with a firm nod.

Ruelle hesitated, "Oh, I’m fine, thank you—"

"Go on, girl. Eat up. You’ll need the strength," his rough voice carried a warmth that was as thick as the stew they ate, softening the hard lines of his face.

Mrs. Elliot, from across the table, smiled as she handed Ruelle a napkin. She said, "He’s right, dear. You and Hailey have been studying hard, and it’s important to look after yourselves."

There was a gentleness in the way they spoke to her, as if Ruelle weren’t just a guest for the weekend but someone they truly cared about. It was a stark contrast to the cold, polite distance of her own home—where she often felt invisible.

"Thank you," Ruelle said softly, a bit taken aback by their concern. She took the piece of bread, her fingers lingering on the warm crust. The simple gesture stirred something inside her, something unfamiliar and bittersweet.